After a string of in-heat dog days,
the sky unlatches
their cloud gate,
lets loose a raining kennel
of cats and dogs
clawing my face raw.
I sprint through this stampede
south of Golden Gate Park
within a grid
I’m lucky to have
a mailing address in, lucky
like an immunized fox
with all their shots.
With a prick and a Band-Aid,
I got my flu shot yesterday.
I’m now shielded
against a viral rampage.
Band-Aid in the trash,
I kick Sam’s cavernous dog bowl
in an apartment I pay rent
and half my heart to occupy.
Yet for how long?
I’m between jobs
like I’m between lives.
Grandpa Charlie once told me
under a grinning lamplight
I’ll be reincarnated
as a concrete dweller.
When my next-life heartbeats
vibrate in my next-life body,
I’ll still have to knife over
next-life rent
or be left to rot
like Sam
who got crushed by a steel cage
that sped through
a sunrise traffic light.